Rose by Day
by a novelist
Summary: When the beauty of a rose takes on an entirely different meaning.
1. Prelude

Disclaimer: While I don't own the characters, the plot is entirely mine.

* * *

><p>He woke up in pain. Pure, excruciating pain. He wasn't sure where he was, but in that moment, he knew he was alone – and that terrified him. Very slowly, he opened his eyes, instantly wincing at the intense brightness of the lights above him. He studied the room at large.<p>

Machines beeped and chimed beside the firm bed he lay on. He felt the thin, clear tube which had been wrapped firmly around his face, providing him with oxygen. He inhaled deeply, taking in the eerily familiar scent of over-sterilization. He grimaced at it all, trying his best to push all pain aside long enough to remember what had happened to place him here.

He didn't have to wonder for long. A moment later the door opened and Holly Vega quietly stepped into the room. His breath caught when he saw her, and suddenly his own pain was the least of his worries. He knew then that something was terribly wrong.

Deep worry lines creased her otherwise beautiful facial features. Tired eyes met his own, and she managed a weak smile as she heavily sank into the chair beside his bed.

"You're awake," she said. She rested her hand on his gently, her smile growing. "Thank God," she whispered. She sighed. "We needed some good news around here."

"What happened?" he asked. He struggled to shift positions in the bed, wincing at the pain in his ribs. "Why am I here? And Tori – is she all right?"

For a split second, confusion crossed the woman's face, although it disappeared quickly. The expression was replaced with that of sympathy as she replied, "We aren't sure of anything right now. We found you outside Jarry's Tavern last night, beaten unconscious and presumably left for dead." She sighed. "You were brought in with head trauma, among multiple other injuries. You don't remember anything, honey?"

"No," he muttered. He shook his head slowly, wincing at his intense headache as he asked again, "Is Tori all right?"

Holly's face clouded. Before she could answer, they both turned their eyes to the door at the sound of a soft knock. David Vega stood in the doorway, his face drawn and haggard. "Holly? Can I speak to you a moment, please?"

"Of course." She stood. She smiled weakly at Beck. "Will you excuse me?" She walked over to her husband.

"No. Not until you tell me what's going on." Beck pushed himself up further in the bed, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs and his weak, aching muscles as his expression hardened and his worry grew. His voice was stronger now. "Where's Tori?"

Tears fell from Holly's eyes. David took her in his arms and kissed her gently. He peered over the top of Holly's head at Beck. His eyes were full of a mixture of sorrow and fear - and the latter was enough to terrify Beck all the more. His heart sank as he finally heard the words, "She's missing."

* * *

><p>Within forty-eight hours of Tori's disappearance, a search party was formed. Detectives Charles Larson and Alex Huxley, both of whom had been assigned to the case, led the large group of police officers and eagerly helpful citizens as they scoured a heavily wooded area just a few miles south of the bar.<p>

Among the group was Andre, Jade, Robbie and Cat. It had been years since the four had come together. While they all attended the University of California - Los Angeles, they seemed to pair up and then break off after their high school graduation, with Andre and Jade moving into an apartment together off campus and Robbie and Cat forming a relationship of their own from separate dorms on the UCLA campus.

Now, here they were again, although they couldn't help but wish that it was under entirely different circumstances.

"Can you believe this is happening?" Cat asked. She shivered under the frigid winter wind and pulled her coat more tightly around her. "It's just - it's crazy."

"And scary." Andre looped his arm around Jade's waist. He kissed her softly, and despite the situation, she managed a small smile. Together they made their way through the forest, carefully pushing away low-hanging branches of trees surrounding them. "Obviously, whoever this creep is was targeting her. Why else would he go after a woman who isn't alone when there were dozens of others to choose from?"

"I'm not sure." Robbie took a large step over an area of pure mud and muck. He turned back to Cat and hoisted her over the mess. She smiled gratefully.

Jade glared as a prickly branch roughly brushed against her bare arms. "I've had about enough of this," she muttered. She angrily snapped the branch, and it fell to the ground with a dull thud. "It's been hours now and we haven't found anything. Who said she may be out here, anyway?"

"An anonymous tip." Andre's voice became somber as he said, "I almost hope it was a false call." His eyes fell on the leading investigators, who were several yards in front of them, scanning the area at large. "We're not looking for a missing person out here," he added softly. He sighed. "We're looking for a body."

* * *

><p>As darkness began to fall upon the city of Los Angeles, the two lead detectives called off the search for the missing young woman indefinitely. Now convinced that the tip they had received earlier was clearly a fake one, they once again found themselves without a lead.<p>

As the last of the volunteers sauntered off, Larson and Huxley returned to their own car, an unmarked police vehicle. Larson cursed under his breath as he crawled into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

"We still have nothing to work with," he spat. "And if calls like that keep coming in, it's almost certain to stay that way, too. What a waste of time." He ran a hand wearily through his hair. "And we've got nothing to show for it."

Huxley sighed. "Someone had to have seen something," he said. He started the car. "It's kept pretty dark outside Jarry's Tavern, sure. But with the bar being at its full capacity that night, it's unlikely that this guy wasn't seen by someone." He shrugged, putting the car in reverse and slowly backing up. "We've just got to wait it out. Someone will come forward sooner or later."

Larson sighed. "If only we had that long to wait."

* * *

><p>When Detective Larson arrived at work the next morning, David Vega was waiting for him.<p>

Larson pitied the man instantly. His clothes were wrinkled, his face unshaven and rugged. He sat in the chair outside the office, cradling his head in his hands. A manila envelope lay on the floor beside him.

Larson cleared his throat. Startled, David looked up, his eyes lighting when he saw the detective. Instantly he was on his feet. "Detective Larson," he said. His voice was quite strained. He snatched up the envelope before stepping closer to the detective. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent."

Larson nodded. "Of course. Let's talk in my office."

Only when the two were inside and the door was securely shut behind them did either man begin to talk. Larson took a seat behind his desk. He motioned for David to sit in a hard-backed chair across from him, but David declined.

Larson sighed. "You've found something, I take it?"

David nodded. "Do you know much of the case involving the serial killer here in L.A.?"

Larson leaned back in the chair. "Not much," he admitted.

"He's been at it for months," David explained. "Nearly a year, even. He preys on young women, especially those in their late teens to early twenties - "

"Like your daughter."

"Like my daughter," David agreed. "Of the twelve who have gone missing, eight have been found, each killed with a single gunshot to the head, their bodies dumped in an area much like what was searched today."

Larson ran a hand over his face wearily. "All right," he said. "How does your daughter tie into this?"

"Before he kills his victim, he sends a single black rose to her family, or the closest she has to it. Within a week afterward, the body is found." He sank into the chair. The sound of desperation grew in his voice as he continued. "For the past several weeks, I've been on the team of investigators working to take this man down. Despite how close we came, we couldn't quite catch him." He fumbled with the prongs on the envelope he had brought with him. "When I got home last night, this - " he removed an object from the envelope. "Was on the porch." He carefully laid it on the desk.

Larson reached out for it, stunned.

It was a single rose, its petals dyed a beautiful shade of blue. Attached to the prickly stem was a typed note.

_Time is running out._

"It's become a game to him now," Larson said finally. He shook his head slowly. "He knew you were close to catching him. That's why he singled her out that night."

"It's a deadly game at that." David leaned forward anxiously. "Charles," he said, his voice low, "is there anything at all I can do to help?"

Larson looked back at the missing woman's father. He smiled sadly. "David, I'm sorry, but there's the matter of conflict of interest," he said. "Your involvement in this case, I'm afraid, is - "

"Not possible," David finished. He shook his head. "Of course." He fell silent.

Larson studied the other man for a long moment. "David?"

David looked up, meeting the detective's eyes evenly with his own tear-filled eyes. "Bring my daughter home," he whispered.

* * *

><p>Two weeks after Tori's disappearance, Beck was released from the hospital. Despite strict orders to remain bedridden for at least the next forty-eight hours, he immediately went from the hospital to the Vega residence, where several anxious friends had gathered alongside Tori's parents as they awaited a phone call from the detectives.<p>

They were gathered in the living room. Jade managed a tight smile as Beck walked in and sank into the nearest empty chair.

"You're looking better," she said.

He nodded curtly. "I feel like hell, though," he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair. "How long has it been?"

Andre sighed. "Four hours." He shook his head. "How could it take so long to follow this lead?"

Before anyone could answer, Holly bustled in carrying a tray with several mugs of hot cocoa. "I thought you all may be getting thirsty," she said. She smiled weakly. "With this cold weather, hot cocoa seemed to be fitting." She anxiously snuck a glance at the clock. "I have cookies in the oven now. They'll be out soon."

Robbie took the mug from her. "Mrs. Vega, you don't have to do this," he said gently.

Her smile faltered, but didn't quite vanish. "Yes, I do," she said. She took a deep breath and wiped at her eyes quickly. "I'll be back soon with the cookies." She disappeared into the kitchen.

Beck sighed. "It's the only way she can keep her composure," he explained. He took a sip of the steaming drink. "She needs the distraction."

Suddenly they heard the front door close, followed by slow, deliberate footsteps down the hall. A moment later David stepped into the living room, his face pale, his eyes full of sorrow. He held something in his hand.

Holly rushed in then. "Did they find something?" she asked hopefully.

David shook his head sadly. "No," he whispered. He swallowed hard. His voice broke when he spoke again. "But this was left on the front porch." He set the object in the middle of the coffee table.

A beautiful rose, its delicate petals dyed black.

And at that moment, life as they once knew it forever changed.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello, all! So I got a very, very brief break in schoolwork - as in long enough to get a few chapters posted, but updating won't be consistent until winter break at least. I'm sorry I can't update more often. However, I do hope you enjoy these chapters.

For those who haven't done so already, you'll have to go back and re-read chapter 1, because it has been entirely changed. I've changed parts of this chapter compared to when it was posted under When the Veil Falls, but it has the same main idea if you want to skip to chapter 3.

All right, that's enough babbling. It's late; I have a habit of rambling. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>On a dreary Christmas Eve, Beck walked into a bar, alone. The heavy smell of alcohol and desperation greeted him as he pushed through the door. He wrinkled his nose at the stench but slinked over to the bar, feeling his way through the heavy cigarette smoke as he groped for a chair.<p>

He took a seat on one of the cold metal barstools and dug through his wallet for an ID. Behind the counter, a bartender looked at him expectantly. "The usual?" Beck nodded wordlessly in response.

As he waited, he kept his eyes low, avoiding the obvious stares of the lonely women around him. He absent-mindedly traced the fine lines between the tiny brown tiles that made up the counter. A shot glass was set in front of him, and for a moment, he glared at it long and hard.

There has to be more to life than this, he thought miserably. He took in the beverage quickly, wincing at the intense after-taste. Without a moment's hesitation, he tapped the counter lightly. The older man behind the counter finished mixing another drunkard's beverage before turning back to Beck.

"Keep 'em coming," Beck muttered.

He had just downed his third shot when a familiar figure slid onto a barstool beside him. "I'll have what he's having," the young man said.

As the bartender turned to retrieve the drink, Beck turned to the newcomer. "Andre?"

It was obvious that Andre was fresh from work. He wore a pair of ripped-up blue jeans and a red button-down shirt. The first few buttons were undone and his tie was loose around his neck. He removed his coat and slung it over the empty barstool beside him.

He drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for his drink. He managed a tired smile at his friend. "Thought I might find you here," he said.

Beck smirked. "I'm that predictable?"

A shot glass was placed in front of each of them. Andre nodded his thanks toward the bartender before saying, "Of course. Where else would you be on the anniversary of your fiancé's death than at the very place where it all began?" He downed his drink. "Kind of morbid, if you think about it."

Beck rolled his eyes but said nothing.

"You can't keep coming here, drinking away your sorrows," Andre said. His voice hardened. "She's dead, Beck. She's been dead three years, and you still haven't allowed yourself to grieve. Everyone else managed to finally let go. Why can't you?"

Beck scoffed. "Tell me," he said, his voice beginning to slur, "have you ever lost someone you love?"

Andre shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. "Well, no, but - "

"Then you have no idea what I'm going through." Beck glared. "Now leave me alone."

Andre shook his head. "It's useless arguing with you when you're drunk." He motioned for the bartender, who brought him his tab. Andre stood and dropped a few bills on the counter. "When you're ready to talk – and I mean _really_ talk – let me know."

Beck ran a hand through his hair. "Fine. Where are you going?"

"Back to my apartment." Andre put on his coat. He glanced briefly at his phone before cramming it back into his pocket. "I promised Jade I'd take her out tonight, and..." he trailed off suddenly and froze, his eyes fixed on the door. "Wow."

A clean-cut middle aged man strolled into the bar, a gorgeous younger woman on his arm. He wore black slacks and a suit jacket over a white tux shirt. His hair was sleek and combed back. The scent of his strong cologne quickly masked the foul odor of alcohol and filled the room within seconds.

A black dress clung tightly to the woman's small figure, its fabric falling just below her knees. She wore a pair of six-inch stiletto heels, and a pair of silver hoop earrings dangled from her ears. Her long dark hair spilled out from beneath a black flimsy hat with a thick matching ribbon tied around its crown.

"Get a load of _that_ couple," Andre said, nudging his friend lightly.

Beck turned in his seat. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of them. "What are they wearing? Are they in the wrong time period or something?"

Andre chuckled. "Looks like it." He studied the couple, taking them in entirely. "Maybe their time machine crashed somewhere outside and they're looking for help."

Every eye was on the odd couple by now. They walked confidently up to the bar and placed their order – a Scotch for the man and a Ginger Ale for the girl. After exchanging a few words with the bartender, the man handed over a large wad of bills. Then the woman secured her arm through his and allowed him to lead the way through the crowd to a table near the back of the bar.

As they passed, the woman glanced at Beck. Her beautiful brown eyes widened and a look of recognition crossed her face. Her mouth opened slightly as if she was going to speak to him, but she shut it just as fast and returned her gaze to her partner.

Beck's breath caught, and his pulse quickened.

Something was wrong.

He pushed himself to his feet and started for the couple's table, but Andre stopped him.

"Don't even think about it," Andre said.

"It's her. I swear it's her," Beck said. He struggled to free himself from Andre's grasp, but Andre tightened his grip, his fingernails digging into Beck's skin.

"She loved you," he said, his voice growing in desperation. "More than anything, she loved you. Don't you think that if she was alive, she would come back to you?" he said. "Think logically, Beck."

Beck's eyes remained on the woman. He shook his head slowly. "They never found a body," he whispered.

Andre sighed. "She's dead. She's not coming back, she's not coming home, and you – you're drunk. You never think straight when you're drunk. No one does." He loosened his grip. He fumbled in his coat pocket for his keys. "Come on, I can take you home on my way to the apartment."

Suddenly, at the back of the room, the man excused himself and walked away from the table. The young woman sighed and rested her chin on her hand. She quietly sipped her drink as she sat alone at the table.

Perfect.

Ignoring his friend, Beck started toward the woman. He pushed through the large crowd of mingling men and women. He stepped past the half-drunk desperate women who were sauntering toward him. Finally, he stopped mere inches from the table. He nervously took a deep breath before speaking. "Miss?"

Startled, she jumped slightly at the sound of his voice. She didn't look at him at first. Instead, her eyes darted anxiously around the room as if searching for signs of danger. Finding none, she finally looked at him - though her eyes still held a lingering look of terror. Nonetheless, she managed a smile. "Yes?"

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I – I'm sorry, but you look very familiar. Have we met before?"

With his words, her smile faltered. Fear flooded her expression. However, a moment later she recovered with a bright smile and answered in a heavy southern drawl, "I don't think so. Perhaps it's just a resemblance?"

But something about the look in her eyes made it clear that there was much more than a simple resemblance.

Suddenly a deep voice said, "Is there a problem?"

Beck looked up. Dark, menacing eyes met his own as the woman's escort placed his hand protectively on her shoulder. She slumped in the seat at the gesture. With a trembling hand she reached out again for her drink, carefully avoiding Beck's gaze.

Beck swallowed hard. He drew himself to his full height, although even then he knew he was no match against the man standing before him, if need be. "No. No, there's no problem," he said. He stepped back and glanced again at the woman. "I'm sorry to disturb your evening."

He started to make his way through the crowd to return to the safety of the bar. However, the sound of the woman's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Sir? I believe you dropped something."

Confused, he turned and looked down. A slip of paper which had been folded several times lay on the floor.

He looked at the woman curiously, ready to deny ownership to the rubbish. However, something in her eyes - the desperation, perhaps - made him decide otherwise. He shoved the paper into his pocket and flashed a quick smile before walking off.

"Well, Sherlock? What did you find out?" Andre smirked.

Beck ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Nothing," he muttered.

Andre sighed and slid off of the barstool. "What did she say to you?"

Beck shook his head. "Not much," he admitted. "But she looked…terrified. It's as if she's scared to talk to anyone as long as _he_ is anywhere near her. And she dropped this." He removed the slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Chills ran down his spine as he read it in a soft, trembling voice.

_J.M. _

_R5C94M7_

_Send help_


	3. Chapter 3

Detective Charles Larson strode into the bureau early the next morning, a thick manila envelope clutched tightly beneath his arm. He brushed past a small group of detectives lingering in the hallway and stepped into his office.

He dropped the envelope on his desk and closed the door before sinking heavily into his chair. Wearily he ran a hand through his hair. "Three years," he muttered. He shook his head as he shifted through the contents of the folder: photographs, reports, notes and more. He spread them out across his desk and studied them, his thoughts spinning.

He picked up a photograph of the missing young woman. A pair of warm brown eyes stared back at him. He leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "Why now?" he whispered.

Suddenly the door burst open and Holly Vega strode into the room, her husband in tow. "Where is she?" she cried. "Where is my daughter?"

Larson cleared his throat. "Now, Mrs. Vega, I'm afraid – "

"_Where is my daughter?"_

"We don't know." Larson shifted uncomfortably in his chair under the woman's heavy glare, yet he dared to meet her eyes. "But we're doing all that we can to find her."

Holly scoffed. "You know where she was last night," she said. She stepped closer to the man. "How could you have possibly lost track of her now? How could you not - "

"Holly." David placed a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. "Relax," he said, then turned back to Larson. "What do you know so far?"

Larson sighed. "She was last seen at Jarry's Tavern late last night. She was seen with a man in his late forties to early fifties, and both were apparently dressed quite…well, absurdly, to say the least. Unfortunately, we've been unable to get hold of security footage from inside the bar last night, but we've got people working on that right now."

"And their car?" David said. "No one saw them leave?"

"No." Larson sighed. "Whoever he is, he's not new to the place. He found a back way out, somewhere out of sight of parking lot security cameras, and no one saw them leave." He shrugged. "We're doing everything we can, though, I can assure you."

Holly sighed and leaned back against her husband's chest. He kissed the top of her head gently, then turned to the detective. "You'll keep us updated?"

Larson nodded. "Of course." He stood and walked the couple to the door. He smiled tightly. "My promise still stands, David," he said. "We'll do whatever it takes to bring your daughter home."

* * *

><p>Miles away, a young woman in black sat in a cold, dimly lit room. She impatiently sighed and crossed her legs before studying her partner carefully.<p>

He paced the floor restlessly, angrily mumbling under his breath.

She rolled her eyes. "You're being ridiculous."

He scowled, his angry dark eyes briefly meeting her own. "Three years," he spat. "Three years we've been at this, and you choose now to cause trouble. For all I know that could have been a cop you were speaking to."

"Well, it wasn't."

He stopped pacing and stepped closer to her, mere inches from her face - and she couldn't help but feel afraid.

Nonetheless, she refused to show it.

"What was written on that paper?" he demanded.

She scoffed. "Like I would know," she said. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrow. "I didn't drop it, if that's what you're implying."

"You know I hate a liar."

"_I'm_ a liar?" She couldn't restrain herself any longer. She pushed herself to her feet. "And you're one to speak – you, who claimed to be a twenty-year-old student at UCLA three years ago. Who are you, exactly, to accuse me of being a liar?"

"You're lucky to even be alive right now. Do you seriously think it's wise to play this little game?"

She didn't answer, but instead lifted her chin in defiance, daring him, taunting him with a glare filled with pure, unadulterated hatred.

And a moment later, she was on the floor.

* * *

><p>Jarry's Tavern was buzzing when Detectives Larson and Huxley stepped into the bar later that evening. Mingling men and women crowded the place. Larson and Huxley pushed through the crowd and made their way to the bar, where a lone bartender was frantically filling orders.<p>

Larson cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir?" He flashed his badge, as did his partner, before saying, "I'm Detective Larson, this is Detective Huxley. We need to speak with the owner, please."

The bartender nodded, wiping his hands on a nearby towel before stepping around to the other side of the bar. "Certainly," he said. "I'll be right back." He disappeared into a back room.

Huxley cleared his throat as they waited. "Quite a place, isn't it?" he said. His eyes scanned the bar at large.

A drunk woman suddenly stumbled into Larson. Her drink fell from her loose grip. The glass bottle shattered as its remaining contents splattered across the floor. The woman laughed and managed an apology before making her way to the bar.

Larson glared after her before responding, "Certainly."

At that moment the door opened and a tall, slender woman confidently strode into the bar. Almost immediately, every man's eye fell on the woman, who certainly was dressed for show. Her shimmering dress fell far above her knees, and her stiletto heels only made it appear all the shorter. Her blonde hair fell in heavy curls at her shoulders.

Larson shook his head. "Prostitution's getting out of hand in this area," he muttered. "She doesn't even try to hide it." He reached for his back pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of his handcuffs. Before he could move toward the woman, however, they heard a door shut.

"Detective Huxley, Detective Larson." An older man with a small build and thin grey hair stepped from the room and toward the detectives. "It's a pleasure to meet you both." He extended his hand. "I'm Jarry Mills, the owner. You wanted to speak with me?"

Larson nodded. "But perhaps in a more private area?" he said.

"Of course. Come with me. We'll speak in my office." Mills turned on his heels and led the detectives back through the door that he had come through. Only when the office door was securely shut behind them did the detectives begin to speak.

"Mr. Mills," Larson began, "we're investigating a recently reopened missing person's case. We have reason to believe that Victoria Vega came into your bar last night."

Mills's eyebrows shot up. "Is that so?"

Larson nodded. "We would like access to all of your security footage from between 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. last night."

A small smile played on Mills's lips. "Now, detectives," he replied, "I would love to help you, but I know just as well as you do that without a warrant, those tapes, I'm afraid, are unavailable."

Larson exchanged a glance with his partner, startled by the man's sudden hostility. "Mr. Mills, we have reason to believe Ms. Vega's life is in danger, assuming she's still alive as of now. Without those tapes - "

"You have no warrant, Detective Larson," Mills said. His voice was firm. "I'm sorry, but I just can't help you right now."

Larson cleared his throat. "All right," he said. He and his partner stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Mills."

Mills nodded. "Certainly." He stood and walked the men to the door. "If you have any other questions, please, don't hesitate to come again."

"I can assure you, Mr. Mills - " Larson met the man's piercing blue eyes evenly. "You'll be hearing from us soon."

And with that, he stormed from the bar.

* * *

><p>She awoke in a pitch-dark, very small area.<p>

She wasn't entirely sure where she was. She tried to move, but couldn't – her wrists and ankles were tightly bound. Instinct told her to panic, but before she could, her father's voice slipped into her thoughts, and she knew that right then more than ever, she needed to have a clear and calm mind.

Her eyes scanned the small area. She was in a trunk, she realized finally, and she was moving. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the wretched smell of gasoline. She gagged and turned her head away quickly. Instantly, she felt an intense, unbearable pain wrack her body. Her stomach churned viciously. She groaned in misery.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight. She wanted to do whatever she could, just to be free again. Oh, what she would give to be free again.

She wasn't given that chance. She felt the car jerk to a sudden stop. She grunted as her body slammed against the back of the trunk. She heard the sound of car doors opening and then shutting again.

She waited, her heart pounding in her chest. Seconds turned into minutes, although it seemed like a lifetime there in the trunk. The smell of gasoline filled the air again, more intense this time. Her eyes slid closed and tears slowly trailed down her cheeks.

She knew then that these last few moments would likely be her last.

* * *

><p>Detective Larson was jolted awake by the sound of the telephone. Groaning, he fumbled to answer it. Detective Huxley's tense voice came over the phone.<p>

"Larson, we need you down at the apartment complex on Old Main. We've got a serious situation to deal with right now."

He sighed and sat up in bed. He snuck a glance at the clock. "It's past two in the morning, Huxley. What's the problem?" Beside him his wife stirred but did not wake. He carefully slid off the bed and walked to the dresser. He quietly shuffled through the drawers for fresh clothes.

Huxley fell silent for a moment. Finally he said, "I'm not sure this is something you want to find out over the phone, but…it's vehicle arson."

"Vehicle arson?" Larson spat. He paused for a moment, his arm only halfway through the sleeve of a button-down shirt. "You woke me up for vehicle arson? Is that not LAPD's issue?"

Despite everything, Huxley laughed shortly, although it seemed quite forced. "Trust me, they're here, too. Half of Los Angeles is here. And you should be, too." His voice became somber. His voice was full of sorrow, yet he revealed no more as he simply said, "We've found our missing person."

* * *

><p>Twenty minutes later, Larson pulled up just outside the apartment complex. He parked on the street and made his way to the parking lot.<p>

Thick yellow police tape blocked the area off to the public. In the center of the lot was a small car, now seared and deformed, its metal melted from the intense inferno that had at last been put out mere minutes before. Larson grimaced at the sight.

He flashed his badge at another detective before ducking below the tape. Across the lot Huxley stood beside the car, notepad in hand. Larson hurried to join his partner. "What happened here, Huxley?"

Huxley cleared his throat. "Someone smothered the car in gasoline and set it on fire with an old Zippo lighter. Calls to the 911 operator came in moments later."

"Was anyone seen running away from the scene?" Larson said. He circled the charred vehicle slowly, taking in what was left of it. He stopped when he came to the back of it and knelt in front of the trunk.

"The parking lot was empty at the time," Huxley said. "Most of the calls to the operator were made from landlines from those inside the complex at the time." He shrugged. "It _is_ nearly three, sir. Most residents were sleeping at the time." He furrowed his eyebrows and stepped closer to Larson, who was closely examining the trunk. "Did you find something?"

"Maybe. Do you have a flashlight?"

A moment later, his hands carefully clad in latex gloves as he handled the potential evidence, he began to shift through the debris.

"Did you say this was where Ms. Vega was found?"

Huxley nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Hmm. Interesting." Larson pushed away a large piece of twisted metal. It fell to the ground with a clatter. It was then that he saw it.

He couldn't believe it at first. After all that the vehicle had been through, it was a pure miracle that its lone occupant had survived, let alone any shred of evidence. His fingers trembled as he reached out for it. "Oh, my goodness," he breathed.

"What is it?"

Larson leaned back on his heels. He turned to his partner. He held the new piece of evidence carefully in his hand: A beautiful rose, its petals singed yet miraculously still intact, each one dyed black.


	4. Chapter 4

She was flying in a world filled with bliss. Perfect, wonderful bliss. She was flying so fast and so far and she never wanted to stop because for the first time in a long time, she was free.

In an entirely different world, the waiting room of First Mercy Hospital was filled with a great mixture of people.

A set of terrified parents settled down in a corner of the room, their heads bent low, their eyes sealed shut as they prayed relentlessly for a much needed miracle.

Four exhausted friends curled up in chairs around the room, their eyes beginning to droop despite their strongest efforts to fight against the darkness threatening to overtake them.

A terrified young man, long lost without his lover, his face slack, his spirit broken as he stared at the door standing between him and the woman he loved. He was only faintly aware of the sudden presence beside him.

"You can stare at the door all you want. It isn't going to open any faster."

Beck's gaze didn't falter when he spoke. "It's been so long," he whispered. He ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Why haven't we heard anything yet?"

Jade sighed. "She has third degree burns, as well as so many other injuries. It's going to take time." She glanced up as someone else approached them. Andre took a seat on the other side of Beck.

Andre managed a tight smile. "I think you need a break from this place," he said. "How about you go back to your place and get some rest? We'll keep you updated."

"No," Beck said, his voice firm. He raked a trembling hand through his hair. "No, I want to be here when the doctors come out."

It was at that moment that the door silently swung open and an older man who had earlier introduced himself as Doctor Carl Tompkins stepped into the room, his eyes weary, his expression blank. "Mr. and Mrs. Vega?"

Instantly Tori's parents were on their feet. "Yes, that's us," Holly answered breathlessly. She grasped her husband's hand tightly, a look of bright hope in her eyes. She took a deep breath. "Is she – is she all right? Please tell me she's all right."

For a moment, Tompkins looked around the room. Several pairs of anxious eyes stared back at him. He cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably before gently saying, "Perhaps we'd better speak in private."

* * *

><p>She wasn't in her perfect world anymore. She had lost her flight and therefore her freedom – and she had to admit, she didn't favor her new surroundings.<p>

She felt numb. She couldn't feel most of her body, and what she could feel felt as though it was still on fire. With her wounds brought intense burning, aching pain. Never had she felt so much pain.

Inwardly, she screamed and desperately prayed to God – prayed to be healed, prayed to be free, prayed that He would take her back. But to her great disappointment, nothing happened.

Suddenly, she heard the dull sound of a door closing, followed by a familiar deep voice. "How long has she been out?"

Beside her bed, someone shifted in their seat. Gentle hands encased in latex closed around her own cold limp one as Holly's trembling voice filled the room. "Almost fourteen hours."

Someone somewhere in the room coughed loudly. "She should be awake by now," David muttered.

A great sense of comfort washed over Tori as her mother's fingers brushed against her cheek, gently pushing away a strand of her singed hair. Holly took in a trembling breath, and Tori didn't have to open her eyes to know that she was crying.

"She's so still," Holly whispered. "So still and so broken." Her grip on Tori's hand tightened. "You know, three years, we prayed and bargained with God, just to see her one last time. Never did I imagine it would be like this."

"Neither did I." David cleared his throat then, his mood abruptly changing. "Enough is enough," he said. "I'm getting the doctor."

"Honey, just – just wait. She's recovering from so much right now. Give it a day, at least."

But the sound of Tori's father's footsteps were heard next. "My daughter is not going to suffer like this," he said, his voice low, his tone firm. "She's been through God only knows what over the past few years. It ends now." Tori heard the faint sound of the door as it creaked open, but her father paused before leaving.

"By the way," he said, "Beck has been waiting quite patiently to see Tori, but he's getting restless. He'd like to see her for a few minutes, at least."

"Of course. Send him in."

The footsteps were fading away. A moment later, the warmth of the gloved hand disappeared.

Tori wanted to cry out and beg her mother to stay by her side just a few moments longer, but her body would not respond. She felt paralyzed, unable to perform even the simplest of actions. Instead, for the second time that afternoon, she heard footsteps fading away as they went down the hallway. She soon found herself alone.

A sudden great wave of drowsiness passed over her. She gave in to it in resignation.

She dreamt of flying.

* * *

><p>Several days later, Detective Huxley knocked softly on his partner's office door. Despite receiving no answer, he hesitated a moment before pushing the door open. "Charles?"<p>

Larson was sitting at his desk. He was leaning close to the computer screen, his eyes squinted as he studied something intensely. He didn't break his gaze from his screen as he responded, "We've got something."

Huxley strode to the desk. Larson leaned back and turned the computer monitor, allowing his partner a better view. "We got a warrant finally," Larson said. "Here's what I pulled from the surveillance video from the night Ms. Vega was seen at the bar."

A somewhat blurry image filled the screen. Huxley leaned closer.

A close-up of a peculiar couple stared back at him. He studied the man on the screen carefully. Finally he said, "What do we know about this guy?"

Larson cleared his throat. "He's fifty-two year old Jason Moore, and until this afternoon, he had no record."

"Hm. What's he in for now?"

Larson stood, reaching for his coat. "Assault and battery - outside Jarry's Tavern, half an hour ago. He's being held on bond downtown."

The words had barely left the detective's mouth before Huxley was out the door.

* * *

><p>Sunlight was pouring through the window in her room when Tori finally gathered the strength to open her eyes. For a long moment she lay there, still and quiet, assessing the environment around her.<p>

The room was smaller than she had imagined it, consisting of numerous machines and monitors and a much too bright light. A lone reclining chair was beside her bed, occupied by her former fiancé. His eyes lit when he saw her, yet he didn't speak, he didn't touch her, he didn't dare move, and she couldn't help but wonder if he feared that doing so would make all of this go away, forcing him back into a life of depression and misery.

She couldn't help but fear the same.

It had been years since she had seen Beck. In that time, she had long wondered if he had grieved and moved on. Yet in that moment, when her eyes met his, she knew that he had never let her go.

He reached out for her hand hesitantly, but stopped short of touching her. She finally finished the distance between them and took his hand in hers. In that moment there was so much to say to one another, but she couldn't bring herself to say a word.

"Thank God you're awake," Beck said finally. His voice broke. He kissed her hand. "I thought we were going to lose you again." He sighed. "How do you feel right now?"

"I've been better." Her voice was hoarse and scratchy. "I'm - " But she couldn't finish her sentence. She broke off into a serious coughing fit.

Beck reached down for the styrofoam cup beside his chair. "Here," he said. He put the cup to her lips and tilted it slightly. Ice-cold water slid down her throat, and gradually, the coughing subsided. "You inhaled a lot of smoke. It's going to be a while before you really get your voice back as it was." He set the cup down. "Are you all right?"

She shook her head, wincing at her pain. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "My entire body aches and hurts like never before." She coughed again.

Beck sighed. "Your medication is probably wearing off. Maybe I should get a nurse." He stood to leave, but she stopped him.

"Not yet. I'm trying to remember something." She furrowed her eyebrows. "Something important."

Beck returned to the chair. "About the accident?"

She shook her head. "No, before it." She sighed in frustration. "I can't even think straight right now," she muttered.

Beck squeezed Tori's hand comfortingly. "Don't - don't push yourself," he said, his voice soft and soothing. He rubbed her hand gently. "What's the last thing you remember?"

She closed her eyes. For a long moment she was silent. Finally she said, "I'm lying on something soft. A bed, I think. I smell...cigarette smoke and alcohol. Definitely alcohol. Someone is holding me down, pressing something against my neck. Something - something very sharp." Her fingers trailed over a long scar along her neck, barely visible beneath her burns.

Anger grew within Beck at the implication of the memory. His grip on her hand tightened slightly. "What do you remember next?"

Her eyes fluttered open. "That's it," she said. Her voice trembled. "That's all I remember. Everything from the past three years is just...gone."

* * *

><p>Later that afternoon, Detective Larson watched as Jason Moore was led into the interrogation room by officers.<p>

He was nearly unrecognizable compared to the man in the surveillance video. His once black hair had been dyed brown and was disheveled, his face unshaven. His eyes were carefully guarded as he sent a glare in the direction of the observation window.

Larson narrowed his eyes. He was faintly aware that his partner had come into the room. Huxley took his place beside Larson at the observation window.

"He's so arrogant," Larson muttered. He frowned. "Just look at him. You can tell just through his demeanor. It makes me sick."

Huxley nodded. "Most criminals are." He handed Larson the case file. "Are you ready?"

Larson nodded. He took it from Huxley's hand and tucked it beneath his arm. "As I'll ever be." He sighed. "Come on. Let's get this over with." He walked into the interrogation room. "Mr. Moore, I'm Detective Larson and this is Detective Huxley." Larson took a seat across from the man. Huxley stood in a corner of the room, arms crossed as he regarded the man thoroughly. "We need to ask you a few questions." Larson opened the case file.

Moore snorted. "It was assault and battery," he said. "How's that the FBI's problem?"

Larson ignored the man's comment. Without looking up from the file, Larson said, "Mr. Moore, we're investigating a recently reopened missing persons case. A young woman who was abducted three years ago was found in a torched car several days ago." He glanced at the man. "Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Moore shook his head. "No, of course not."

Huxley walked over to the table and took a seat beside his partner. "Mr. Moore, have you ever heard of Ms. Victoria Vega?"

Moore stiffened. His face paled slightly and his eyes widened. Even so, he said, "N-no. I've never - "

"Because we have surveillance video of you inside Jarry's Tavern nearly a week ago with Ms. Vega." Huxley removed a snapshot of the couple from the file and placed it before the man. "Do you care to explain that?"

Moore leaned back in his chair. He looked as though he was going to be sick. He swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the photograph. Larson and Huxley exchanged looks.

They had him.

Several long moments of silence passed by. "Mr. Moore?" Huxley said.

Moore finally looked up with eyes filled with fear. His voice trembled as he whispered, "I want a lawyer."


End file.
